Douglas Hodge, here with the Cagelles, plays the star of a transvestite revue in the Broadway revival of “La Cage aux Folles.”Credit
Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

Their plumage is wilting, their wigs are askew, and their bustiers keep slipping south to reveal unmistakably masculine chests. Yet the ladies of the chorus from “La Cage aux Folles” have never looked more appealing than they do in the warm, winning production that opened Sunday night at the Longacre Theater.

Terry Johnson’s inspired revival of Jerry Herman and Harvey Fierstein’s musical, starring a happily mismatched Kelsey Grammer and Douglas Hodge (in a bravura Broadway debut), delivers the unexpected lesson that in theater, shabby can be not just chic but redemptive. This deliberately disheveled show, incubated at the tiny hit-spawning Menier Chocolate Factory in London, is a far cry from the high-gloss original production of 1983 or the glamorous, soulless revival that opened less than six years ago.

The Riviera nightclub of the title — run by Georges (Mr. Grammer) and the setting for a popular racy transvestite revue starring his partner, Albin (Mr. Hodge) — looks as if it could do with a coat of paint and perhaps a delousing. Georges, whose dapper evening jacket is definitely not bespoke, has a worn-down, worn-out appearance. And no matter how much rouge and mascara Albin applies, the dumpy, jowly chanteuse he becomes onstage will never resemble the screen siren of his mind’s eye.

As for the Cagelles, the revue’s scrappy six-member corps de ballet (pared down by half from their last Broadway incarnation), let’s just say that even the most myopic club patron isn’t going to mistake them for real live girls. “We are what we are, and what we are is an illusion,” they sing in gravelly chorus in their opening number. But the deception being peddled so adroitly here isn’t one of mistaken sexual identity.

What makes this version work — transforming a less-than-great musical into greatly affecting entertainment — is its insistence on the saving graces of the characters’ illusions about themselves and, by extension, the illusions of the production in which they appear. As presented here “La Cage” is (you should pardon the expression) a fairy tale, a sweet, corny story that asks us to take people (the good-hearted ones, anyway) at their own valuation.

Try to see it their way, the show suggests; squint hard, and life at this dump will appear, for a second, beautiful. The old-fashioned, feel-good musical (which “La Cage” defiantly is, for better or worse) has always demanded such leaps of faith from its audience. Mr. Johnson’s interpretation coaxes a parallel between the willful make-believe happening onstage and our willingness to subscribe to it. The show’s very plot, we come to realize, is the triumph of musical-theater logic over reality.

That plot, described baldly, is still hard to swallow without gagging, as are some of Mr. Herman’s saccharine-crusted numbers. Adapted from Jean Poiret’s play, the basis for the popular 1978 French film (which Mike Nichols successfully remade in English as “The Birdcage” in 1996), “La Cage” could easily be titled “Jean-Michel Has Two Daddies.”

The sitcom setup is that the rather priggish Jean-Michel (A. J. Shively), sired by Georges (via a one-night stand with a chorus girl) and brought up by Georges and Albin, does not want to bring his fiancée home to mother. Anne (Elena Shaddow), his betrothed, is the daughter of M. Dindon (Fred Applegate), an ultra-right-wing politician who espouses, above all, traditional family values. The anxious Jean-Michel demands that Albin disappear on the night that the Dindons (rounded out by Veanne Cox as the repressed mother) come to dinner.

The ensuing turmoil and resolution can be summed up in the declaration: “Family values? I’ll show you family values!” (You’ve heard that before, right? You certainly have if you’ve been to the new “Addams Family” musical, which lamentably recycles the same idea.) The sentiments are laudable, but the expression of them (despite the French setting) is as apple-pie-sticky as those of an Andy Hardy movie.

Photo

Kelsey Grammer as Georges in the musical “La Cage Aux Folles” at the Longacre Theater in New York.Credit
Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

I can’t say that Mr. Fierstein’s by-the-numbers book goes out of its way to make this medicinal sugar go down more easily. As written, the characters are either adorably cute or abrasively cartoonish, and often both. The show still takes at least 10 minutes too many to arrive at its predetermined conclusion. Yet I don’t think you’ll become restless at this production.

That’s partly because of the stylish yin and yang of its stars. Mr. Grammer (yes, the one from “Cheers” and “Frasier”) and Mr. Hodge (a multifaceted veteran of the London stage), play it straight and bent, respectively, in equally disarming ways. Albin has always been a natural-born showstopper. But Mr. Hodge, who originated the part in the London revival, brings a fluttery hyperintensity to the role that recharges it.

His Albin has absorbed a host of influences, including Edith Piaf, Marilyn Monroe and, especially, the female impersonators of the British music hall. And he has combined these disparate elements into a jittery defense system that is on (and I mean on) at all times.

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You don’t realize how much pain and anger have gone into this self-construction until you hear him do “I Am What I Am,” the show’s signature anthem, at the end of the first act. Mr. Hodge breathes fire here, his hitherto scratchy, campy voice growing into a white-hot blaze. It is — and who’d a thunk it? — the most electric interpretation of a song on Broadway right now.

Mr. Grammer provides the ideal counterpoint to this hysterical creature, in a cool, modest performance that has its own sneaky charm. That his singing voice is correspondingly quiet, with no muscle-flexing baritone bravado, makes Georges’s over-ripe sentimental ballads (“Look Over There,” “Song on the Sand”) palatable and even touching in their unaffected sincerity.

The rapport between him and Mr. Hodge, grounded in the peppery give and take of a vaudeville team, reminds us that there’s a necessary dash of showbiz to marriage. Like many couples, Georges and Albin have created their own private mise-en-scène and extended it to embrace a theatrical family that includes an over-the-top butler cum maid (Robin de Jesús, from “In the Heights”) and the vain restaurateur next door (Christine Andreas).

The design team — Tim Shortall (sets), Matthew Wright (costumes), Nick Richings (lighting), Jonathan Deans (sound) and Richard Mawbey (wigs and makeup) — have brought this insular world to physical life with wonderful seediness And the athletic production numbers, choreographed to embrace manly clunkiness by Lynne Page, are a tacky delight, especially that slipshod beach-ball number.

In another context these down-at-heel people who live on their illusions might be pathetic. But don’t worry. This is not “La Cage” as “The Iceman Cometh.” Even tripping over themselves, the Cagelles exude the raw pleasure of people being exactly who they want to be. That’s showbiz, folks. And when Albin leads the company in a beaming version of “The Best of Times,” a song that usually gives me hives, you’re likely to feel that a cramped, decrepit nightclub has become the coziest sanctuary in the world.

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